• Category Archives Holidays

  • The Winter Solstice

    Posted on by Charles Comment

    Winter and the Winter Solstice Moon

    Thursday gratefuls: The Solstice. My favorite holiday. Bastien’s Steak House. Alan. 50 in Denver 32 on Shadow Mountain last night. I-25 clogged with cars. The city lights. Glad to be home where it’s dark. Lights on the City Center, the Capitol Mall. Colfax Avenue. Families. My family. Friends. My friends. Shadow Mountain Home. Herme. Ruby. That puppy in my dream. Snow for Christmas. Life. Surrender.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: The longest night of the year

    One brief shining: A new quiet has settled over me this Holimonth as Hanukah ended and the lights of Christmas, Christmas music, the whole runup to the gift extravaganza leave me with no nostalgia or wistfulness, rather a sense that Hanukah itself was enough for that sort of celebration though the Winter Solstice, tonight, remains my favorite Holimonth holiday.

     

    Long ago before the age of reason and Francis Bacon, before the Greek astronomers and the Hindu astrologists, the Chinese sages we humans understood little about the world beyond our planet. Few were probably aware of living on a planet at all. As the longest day of the hot season faded into the past, our distant ancestors noticed that the nights grew longer and the days shorter. Was the sun going into a waning mode? Would it return for the longer days necessary for warmth and growth? On this night, this Winter Solstice night, that question would have loomed over those huddled together before a fire in a smoky dwelling. So it’s understandable that the big news for most on the Winter Solstice is the beginning of the sun’s reemergence, Great Sol slowly but surely reclaiming dominance over the forces of darkness and cold.

    I have a different perspective. I celebrate at the Summer Solstice as the night begins to grow, as darkness expands its hold. It’s not that I’m a light Grinch, not at all. I love the growing season, air warm enough for short sleeves and picnics. Sure. I need to eat and my body loves a temperature suited to its native state. And yet.

    Darkness. Where the roots and rhizomes and microbes live. Where the imagination comes alive, filling the night with faeries and ghosts and goblins. Where rest happens. Where preparation for the growing season goes on under the surface of the soil. Where preparation for personal growth goes on in the recesses of our psyches. Where the heat of the day calms, allowing a cool time for sleep. Where all is calm and nothing is bright. Fecund. Quiet.

    Darkness does have its, well, dark side. Of course. The Forest gives itself over to the nocturnal Predators. The city, too. Criminal time.  Deaths occur at the Hour of the Wolf, around 4 am. Sleep might be fitful or hard to find. Wrecking the day. Fears can come out to play havoc with our inner peace.

    Even so. I’ll take some time, perhaps a lot of time, to go inward. To acknowledge the fecundity in darkness. Not to ignore the difficulties of the night, but to reclaim it from those who see it only as something to avoid with light or sleep or intoxicants.

    The longest night. I’ll light a candle or two. Probably have a fire. Read poetry. Contemplate life and its complexities, its simplicities. Remember Winter Solstices past. What will you do?


    Feelings Fourth Phase Great Wheel Holidays Shadow Mountain

  • Surrender Charlie

    Posted on by Charles Comment

    Samain and the Winter Solstice Moon

    Wednesday gratefuls: Heidi. The Dragonfly Sign. Colorado Supreme Court. Psilocybin. Nahuatl Gods and Mayan hieroglyphics. Surrender. Irv. Rider. Mt. Logan. Crooked Top Mountain. The Grandfather Tree. Park County 43. Buggy Whip Road. Hangman’s Road. Washington County Maine. Climate change. Shadow Mountain. The Rockies. The Front Range. Alan. Bastien’s Steak House. The Winter Solstice. Holimonth.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Colorado Supreme Court

    One brief shining: A cloth with Native American colors marking the four directions, circular, laid on it cut white Roses, small Pine Tree Branches, red Roses, Cinnamon, Coffee beans, Star Anise, Aspen Leaves arranged for a Peruvian gratitude ceremony in which I picked up a small Branch of Pine Needles, inhaled its essence three times and exhaled my love and gratitude before placing the needles gently in the center.

     

    OK, nation! See Colorado go. I loved living in Minnesota and in the Twin Cities for forty years. The North Woods. Wolves. Lake Superior. So many Lakes. Liberal to radical politics. Not perfect, no. Witness George Floyd. But no place is. And Minnesota seemed as close as they come while I lived there. Then Kate and I moved to Shadow Mountain.

    As the Dead said: What a long, strange trip it’s been. Many of you know my story over the now 9 years exactly since my buddy Tom and I drove straight through from the Twin Cities with Kepler, Vega, and Rigel in the back. And, yes, that story has its definite peaks and valleys. But that’s not my reference here.

    No where else in the country, this divided and often pitiful land of ours, could I have had a legal psychedelic journey on Crooked Top Mountain then come home to Shadow Mountain and read the wonderful news that the Colorado Supreme Court had called a crook a crook, an insurrectionist an insurrectionist and kicked Trump off our ballot. I mean, whoa! What a day.

    I shifted my inner identification a few years back from Minnesotan to Coloradan, my Mountain home become just that. Home. Yes, we elected a gay Governor. How bout that. And of course the wild Neighbors and the Mountain Streams and the Black Bears. The Snow and the spectacular Autumns with gold and green. Over the time I’ve lived here Colorado has shifted from red to blue. Not without some Western weirdness along the way, but that makes it interesting. All that’s true.

    But in one day to take a psilocybin journey with a good friend on property so evocative of a sixties commune and then learn we Coloradans had taken a firm stand, saying what all clear eyed non Trump bedazzled folks already know but somehow cannot communicate, that insurrectionists should not, in fact,cannot hold office. Well, I’m busting with state pride right now. Colorado is the California of the new Millennia. OK. Enough local chauvinism. Still, pretty damned cool. Gives this aging radical a boost.

     

    Short note on the psilocybin journey about which more later. Ate the mushroom after the gratitude ceremony. Mixed with a little lemon juice supposed to make it come on quicker and go sooner. Sat outside in the glass enclosed shelter where we held the gratitude ceremony, the others going inside. Watched the curved Snowy Bowl of Mt. Logan as my inner weather shifted under the power of the mushroom.

    Went inside and lay down on a heated pad. Soon Nahuatl Gods and Mayan hieroglyphics began to move across the ceiling. Sometimes two dimensional sometimes three almost down to my face. I love hallucinations. So fun. I told my guide I might be under utilizing the experience; it was so entertaining.

    Turned out no. I hadn’t. I had two intentions going in, the one I wrote about yesterday, how to live fully, and the second to continue my exploration of the sacred.

    During some brief conversation after being asked if we had any insights I said, yes, I had one. In living more fully I’ve pushed, thought about things to do, about acting in my life to live more fully. Answering Shakespeare, I have always chosen to take up arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them. Now I need to learn surrender.

    To live fully I need to open up, accept what’s coming. Greet the new year with arms spread wide for what it brings rather than what I can make happen. Well, not rather than. I mean, I’ll still take up arms, of course I will, but I learned yesterday that I have another option. To embrace, to wait, to listen, to let the world and its wonders come to me. As the Wicked Witch of the West might say, “Surrender, Charlie!”

     

     


    Colorado Feelings Fourth Phase Friends Fungi Health Hermitage Holidays Myth and Story Park County Reimagine. Reconstruct. Reenchant. Reimaging revelation Shadow Mountain The West Travel US History

  • All the grandchildren will need them

    Posted on by Charles Comment

    Samain and the Winter Solstice Moon

    Wednesday gratefuls: The Geminids. The Sky. Outer Space. The James Webb. Orion. Aquarius. Polaris. The Crab Nebula. Fusion power, may its potential become reality. The Darkness before a Winter Dawn. Fog. Driving through a Cloud. Prostate cancer as a chronic disease. Phonak. Split keyboards. Wireless mice and keyboards. My desktop, old faithful. With me since 2016. Cernunnos.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: My sibs

    One brief shining: On the seventh day of Hanukah I will take out eight beeswax candles, small tapers, and starting from the right place them one at a time until all but two candle holders have a candle, the eighth candle, the shamash, lies in front of the menorah ready for its servant role as bringer of fire and light to the other seven candles, when the others burn the shamash will go in its central holder, ready if needed.

     

    Still learning. Supposed to light the candles from left to right, always start with the new light. This festival honors a small group of Maccabean soldiers who liberated the temple in the second century b.c.e. The Temple menorah had only six lights plus a shamash, the helper and, in addition, the Mesopotamian Sun God. An interesting conflation.

    The Temple menorah burned oil and was to be kept lit always. The Seleucid’s occupying the Temple had let the Temple menorah go out. The only oil that could be used in the menorah was oil that had been blessed. There was only enough for one day. Yet it burned for eight days so the story goes. Enough time for the priests to return and bless more oil.

    Jews celebrate this holiday to honor the Maccabees and their small force that returned the Temple to the Jewish community. Thus, it’s a holiday signifying the power of even a small group of dedicated people. Yes, the miracle of the oil. But for most, not the main point. A minor holiday in most ways except for its confluence with the Christmas season and its emphasis on lights.

     

    Another interesting confluence. My beeswax candles for the menorah and the climate conference in Dubai. 200 nations agreed to transition away from fossil fuels. Cynical me: Finally. Probably not in time. Glad me: Finally. The right direction.

    We must emphasize adaptation, too. Adaptation to the results of climate change will have to proceed apace with the efforts to rein in carbon emissions. My own energy and money will focus there. I used to have a front line seat and intention to stop coal, get legislation passed, keep the oil in the ground. No more. There are plenty of young activists doing that. May they succeed.

    Me? I want the axolotl population to increase. Perennial food grains to go into the soil all over the world. Institutions like the Land Institute to get more and better attention, funding. I want those farmers willing to wrestle the land back to its non-fertilized, non-Roundupped state to start buying land back from corporate farms and feed lots. I want the DNA of all food crops to diversify again, away from the monocultures sold and owned by seed companies and pharmaceutical giants. I will support all of these efforts in my own way, both financially and politically.

    Why? Because a world changed by a climate heated beyond our experience will need all of them. My grandchildren will need all of them. All the grandchildren will need them.

     


    Family Feelings Fourth Phase Great Work Holidays Judaism Politics Shadow Mountain

  • Ho, Ho, Ho

    Posted on by Charles Comment

    Samain and the Choice Moon

    Monday gratefuls: The Ancient Brothers on faith. Leo. Luke on his way to Florida. Scott and Rene. Snow. Christmas music. Klezmer music. Nepalese food. Gabe, Ruth, Mia coming up on the weekend. Hanukah. My Dog menorah. Holiday gifts. For Mark and Ana and the Shirley Waste folks. The lights on Black Mountain/Brook Forest Drive. Especially that one tall Spruce. Fusion energy. Coming, I hope. The long arc of a life.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Leo asleep beside me

    One brief shining: Took a peppermint flavored chocolate ball as I entered the sanctuary, kippah in place, popped it in my mouth while finding a seat on the left side so my good ear would be toward the piano, a crowd of unfamiliar people in the seats to hear a local pianist, a transplanted Australian, play seasonal music, that is Christmas music mostly, a somewhat dissonant experience.

     

    Relearned a lesson yesterday evening. I still have neurons caching memories of Silver Bells, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and Silent Night. Hearing these songs in the same sanctuary where I held the Torah scroll on Friday night was. Strange.

    Memories of Christmas past came floating up like visitors to Scrooge, sort of unwelcome yet also precious. And important. Teaching me that I am whole, not part. Not just this new Jew, welcomed home by CBE, but an old, well not really Christian, but American immersed in the Christmas tree, holiday lights, Santa Claus and candy cane world of December in the U.S. And, Singapore. Yet I also believe in the miracle of the mikvah, that I have always been a Jew, and so my slight outsider status to the candy cane world even long ago.

    Will watch a silly Christmas movie or two. No tree. Not for a long time. Perhaps I’ll listen to some Christmas music. Each year for the past several years I’ve purchased the Jacquie Lawson Advent calendar, an English themed dive into a Victorian or Edwardian or London Christmas spread out over the season of Advent. Frustratingly this year I’ve had difficulty opening the damned thing. But I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the retro Christmas feeling these calendars have to offer.

    What I’m saying here is that I don’t miss celebrating that most confusing of theological ideas, incarnation of a great God in one person (all people, yes, sure. but one person?); however, the Christmas season even with its crass buy me, buy me, buy me emphasis still warms my heart. Sleigh bells jingle. Rudolf mounts the skies. That Grinch gets foiled.

    Folks put up lights in brave attempts to recall Great Sol from an apparent disappearance. Down the hill from me are inflatable moose lit with inner light, snowmen, Santa Claus, trees across Evergreen Lake, three of them the same height with wonderful blue bulbs, a Christmas light lined fence, more than one.

    On Friday night when I drove to CBE for the celebration of mine and Veronica’s conversion downtown Evergreen had barriers to cars. The Christmas parade. Drawing shoppers and kitschy Mountain lovers from Denver to give local folks some cash. I like it.


    Feelings Fourth Phase Holidays Judaism Reimagine. Reconstruct. Reenchant.

  • How to Become a Pagan and a Jew

    Posted on by Charles Comment

    Samain and the Choice Moon

    Monday gratefuls: The Ancient Brothers on gratitude. Snow melted off the Lodgepoles. Great Sol working magic. Black Mountain green again. Seven Stones cemetery. Israel. Becoming a Jew. Sleeping in. Tinned fish. Rice. Cosmic Apples. Holimonth. Advent. Hanukah. Winter Solstice. Christmas. Posada. New Years. Rituals and holidays. Celebrations of deep moments. Christmas lights up along Black Mountain Drive. Gifts, giving and receiving. Those folks who paid for my Thanksgiving meal.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Rituals and holidays

    One brief shining: Books have invaded my house, creeping downstairs from my library a few at a time, insinuating themselves on chairs, coffee tables, anywhere a flat surface offers them purchase, oh and I should say, they also come to the front door in boxes, mailing bags of paper and plastic, insisting on being brought inside out of the cold, warmed up before they get read.

     

    “And when I die / and when I’m gone / there’ll be one child born, in this world / to carry on / to carry on.” And When I Die, Laura Nyro

    This song has been ear worm the last couple of days. Blood, Sweat, and Tears is the version I remember. I like the message. And, I believe Max was that child for Kate.

     

    Tomorrow at my beit din, court of judgment, Rabbi Jamie, Joan Greenberg, and Cantor Liz Sacks will convene. Here is Rabbi Jamie’s heads up:

    “For the beit din, you will be asked to reflect upon your journey, why you are taking this step at this time, and other open ended questions (to which there are no ‘right’ answers). Your essays have been shared with the other members of the beit din. Let honesty and a playful humility be your guides and you’ll be just fine.”

    Here is my “essay:”

     

    How to Become a Pagan and a Jew

     

    Start religious life on a hard wooden pew under a stained-glass window of Jesus praying at Gethsemane. You know, father if you’d just as well, I’d prefer to pass on the whole crucifixion thing. Years and years of sermons, Christmas eve services, Easter services. Enough to create a solid if unremarkable Christian theology. Small town religion in the 1950’s Midwest. What else were you gonna be?

     

    As your brain develops and your education expands, you might find yourself beginning to ask questions. Resurrection? Really. How does that work? Methodist. Nazarene. Missouri Synod Lutheran. Synod? Roman Catholic. Bible Church. So many brands. Why is that? Couldn’t they just agree?

    How about that Reverend Steele who ran off to California with the organist?

    We haven’t even hit 1965 yet. Maybe in a search for more information you go to the Roman Catholic priest in town and ask for instructions in how to become a Catholic. If he’s smart (yes, he, always he. I mean, Jesus was a guy, right?), and noticing the kind of questions you’ve come with he might introduce you to some proofs for the existence of god.

    Like that one where this thing causes that thing and we spend a lot of time going backwards, if this thing caused this then what caused this? Until we reach the universe itself. Bingo! Has to be god, right? Who or what else has the metaphysical moxie to be the cause behind the whole universe. The Prime Mover. Or that other one for example by that guy Anselm: God is that which there is nothing greater than can be conceived. Sort of obvious that one.

    Maybe college comes next and you choose to enroll in Philosophy 101. The professor smokes a pipe with tobacco pre-rolled in paper covered plugs. Wears tweed. Quotes whole passages from Plato. In Greek no less. None of those high school teachers held even a small votive candle to this guy.

    And he demolishes Anselm and the Prime Mover. Who wants to worship a first cause? I mean, come on. So what if there is something greater than anything else that can be conceived? What does that prove? It’s just an exercise in fuzzy thinking.

    Oh. You say. Well. I see. And wander off to Albert Camus who’s much more appealing than Jean-Paul Sartre. Camus later will remind you of Ram Dass who said we’re all just walking each other home. Sorry. A digression there.

    After a while the whole Christian story doesn’t add up. Too many contradictions. Too much bloodshed. Too much bigotry. And it gets shoved off to the side while other matters, more immediately germane, take precedent.

    Like the Vietnam War. Or feminism. Or Anthropology. Or dope. Or alcohol. Or contract Bridge.

    Wait though. Kierkegaard. He was an existentialist, right? Like Camus. Interesting. Well, maybe you decide, I’ll give it a look after all this college stuff finishes up.

    Later, say a year or so out of college, drifting from a department store job to selling life insurance to cutting up underwear in a papermill to make rag bond paper, Kierkegaard comes back. Leap of faith, wasn’t it?

    Yes. Instead of figuring faith out, act like you have it. See what happens. Before your 7 am shift starts at Fox River Paper, you take to reading the Bible. Writing verses down on notecards and sticking them in your shirt pocket to be read over a baloney sandwich at lunch.

    Then this minister. United Church of Christ. Didn’t have that one back home. Turns out he’s opposed to the war, too. That’s a head twister. Not your small-town religion anymore.

    You’re really, really bored. Cutting up underwear was not your dream job. OK, maybe you didn’t have a dream job, but that wasn’t it for sure. That wife you married in a rush on that Indian Mound turns out to be sleeping with other guys.

    Ooff. You need to get out of this small conservative slice of Wisconsin. Joe McCarthy’s buried in a nearby cemetery.

    That minister says. Try seminary. Nah. Why would I do that? Cutting rags no. But minister. Not a chance. Do you even know me? Drugs, sex, and rock and roll. Why not? If you don’t like it, quit. But at least you’ll be somewhere else.

    Well, maybe. The application comes in the mail. They offer you housing and food and tuition for the first year. Huh. That wife gets the Volkswagen van. You sell the house, make a little bit. You get some cash and off you go to Minnesota.

    Five years later you’re working as a Presbyterian minister. Building affordable housing. Supporting labor unions and immigrants in search of green cards. Challenging standard philanthropy practices. Taking food out to Wounded Knee. Organizing the unemployed to create new jobs, legislation.

    Not bad. Making money, hardly anything, but doing things you find important, worthwhile. Significant, in a small way.

    Decide to get an advanced degree. A Doctorate. While writing your thesis discover you’ve written one hundred and twenty pages of a novel instead. Even the Gods Must Die. Oh. A clue there.

    Your spiritual director, a fussy little guy, but insightful says during one session, “You’re a Druid!” You’ve been reading Celtic mythology, remembering that professor with the pipe. Slipping away from the fold.

    One morning you wake up and realize you really don’t buy it anymore. Probably hadn’t bought it for a while. The political work was too good, too solid, too in synch with your heart. You stuffed the doubts and the fact that you represented this religion.

    Skip forward a few years. A new wife. Flower gardens. Vegetable gardens. An orchard. Bees. A woods. Wolfhounds and whippets. No longer a minister.

    Thinking about a tactile spirituality. A spirituality that goes in and down rather than up and out. You realize the life you nurture in the gardens, the dogs, your small family. That’s real. No fancy philosophy required. Right here. Hands in the soil digging up carrots and beets and onions. Life. Its cycle.

    The seasons. The Great Wheel of the Seasons. Putting away apocalyptic linear time for good. Everything has its season. Yes. Everything.

    The bees. Are you more important than they are? Is Celt, that 180 pound goofy, loving dog less significant than you? Oh.

    Life begins to look less complicated.

    Later, much later, that wife dies. And that’s part of the Great cycle. Maybe you get cancer and find solace in the Mountains of your new home. How short your life is compared to theirs.

    You begin to live with the seasons, with life as it comes. Not pushing against it, not privileging that life over that. Extending your understanding of life to include the Mountain on which you live. And the ones which surround it.

    You find your wild neighbors communicating to you. Welcoming you, including you.

    That’s how.

     

    Jewish Coda

    King David. That’s why. My wife, Kate Olson, a convert at 30, and I searched the Canyon Courier. New to the mountains in 2014. Oh, an education session on King David at Congregation Beth Evergreen.

    Folks we met that snowy, bitter cold night came to Kate’s shiva in 2021. Tara, Marilyn. Many others, too, whom we met later.

    Kate sat on the board, dressed like a jester for Purim. We attended services, holidays, education events. Got to know people. Studied mussar and kabbalah with Rabbi Jamie.

    Made friends. Brought food. Carried tables. You know. The work of community.

    Assimilation. Happens so slow. So many Seders, Simchat Torahs. Love that holiday! The dancing and the simcha. Meals in the sukkah. Learning late at night on Shavuot. Breakfasts and lunches with friends from the synagogue.

    Teaching in the Hebrew School with my buddy Alan. 6th and 7th graders. Doing the occasional bagel table lesson. Discovering Avivah Zornberg, my favorite.

    Two and a half years after Kate’s death. Still a member, still hanging with my friends from the synagogue.

    Rabbi Jamie’s lesson on the Mah Tovu. This summer. It hit me. The truth of this Mordecai Kaplan commentary on p. 141 of the Prayerbook: It is only a true and close community that develops associations, traditions and memories that go to make up its soul. To mingle one’s soul with that soul becomes a natural longing.

    I had long ago mingled my soul with this sacred community. These people are my people. I am one of them.

    The next day I called Jamie. I want to convert. What do I need to do. To bring myself into full alignment with this community.

     

     

     

     


    Holidays Humanities Judaism Literature

  • The Kindness of Strangers

    Posted on by Charles Comment

    Samain and the Choice Moon

    Friday gratefuls: The kindness of strangers. Prime rib. Mashed potatoes. Corn bread stuffing. Green salad. Charcuterie plate. Urban Farmer. Downtown Denver on Thanksgiving. A solid workout. Snow and cold. 11 degrees this morning. Flocked Lodgepoles. Black Mountain obscured in fog. Fog last night driving home. Snow falling gently. Good sleeping. BJ and Pammy. Diane. Recovering. Mark in Hafar. Mary in K.L. My son and Seoah in Songtan. Me on Shadow Mountain. A good Winter storm.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Snow and Snow Plows

    One brief shining: After parallel parking for the first time in a while, poorly, I closed Ruby’s door, looked over at Union Station and walked away from it toward the Urban Farmer which sits at 17th and Wazee, downtown Denver had cars in almost all parking spaces, lights were bright, and folks walked the streets hurrying to this meal or that bar when I went in and said, Buckman-Ellis for one.

     

    Thanksgiving day, 2023. I had decided a month ago that I wanted to eat a good meal in a fine restaurant downtown Denver. Why? Jon died a year ago and we had Thanksgiving up here with Jen, Barb, Ruth and Gabe. My usual Thanksgiving was with Jon and the kids, sometimes my son and Seoah joined us. I didn’t feel like repeating last year’s meal, but I wanted to do something special. So. Downtown, fancy restaurant.

    Though. Ruth called and invited me to Thanksgiving dinner. Her last at home before heading off for college. She cooked. Mia, my granddaughter from another mother came, too. It was a quiet meal. I couldn’t hear well so I didn’t join the conversation as much as usual. I enjoyed the food and the company.

    Afterward we played a hand of Uno. I said I needed to get home before dark, so I left a bit early. As I walked out, everybody came with me. Ruth gave me a hug. Gabe ran in and hugged me. Reminded me of that awful night when Ruth found Jon dead. Mia gave me a hug. Ruth and Gabe gave me another one. Sweet. Jen watched, much as she had when Ruth and Gabe ran to me when I arrived the night Jon died.

     

    The Urban Farmer buzzed. Silverware clanked. The hostess asked me if I would be ok with a hightop? No. She led me to a two top down a corridor beyond the bar. In my imagination I sat at a two-top in a quiet corner, eating, reading. Nope. A family on my left, an odd couple on my right. Three tables across the way with families. A busy, busy place. Wait people, bus persons, bartenders, chefs moved in and out of swinging doors. Every table in the place was full and before I left they lifted two sliding doors and opened yet another whole room for guests. Not quite the intimate, secluded meal I had fantasized.

    I did not want Turkey. Why I went to a steak house. Prime rib. Decided on it because I like it and it was Kate’s favorite. I could imagine her being pleased with it as much as I was. Delicious. The Corn bread stuffing equaled any I’d ever had. It was a fixed price meal. $90. Reasonable with all the sides and the salad and the charcuterie plate and the chocolate cake at the end.

    My waitress, a Latina, took good care of me. I noticed a young girl working as a bus person who moved fast, taking plates over here, clearing tables there. Always moving. I gave my waitress a five and told her to give it to her because I enjoyed her work ethic. My waitress smiled, said, “We call her Speedy Gonzalez!” A very sweet part of the evening because Speedy Gonzalez beamed the next time she came past my table. Thank you she mouthed.

    Took out my credit card after the last bite of the cake. My waitress sat down next to me and said, “You’re good. A table already paid your bill.” Wha…? I slipped her a tip and said, “Well. That’s something.” Didn’t say why. Maybe because I was an old guy eating alone on Thanksgiving? Or, just a kind gesture… I’ll never know because they were gone. At least I think so. I was a bit flustered. Left me smiling on Thanksgiving. Something to be grateful for.


    Denver Family Feelings Fourth Phase Holidays Weather +Climate

  • Thanksgiving

    Posted on by Charles Comment

    Samain and the Choice Moon

    Thanksgiving gratefuls: Ruth and her Thanksgiving meal. Gabe, as, well, Gabe. Mia, my granddaughter from another mother. Jen. The shema. The mezuzahs. Darkness. An early morning/nighttime conversation across the Pacific with my son and Seoah. My son in Hawai’i next week. Murdoch. Gratitude. Thanksgiving. Alan. Marilyn and Irv. Tara. Rich. Jamie. Ron. Holimonth. Thanksgiving itself. Native American Heritage day. Native/First Nation Americans. The West. Shadow Mountain. Snow on the way.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Thanksgiving

    One brief shining: The kitchen island had sprouted small oasis’s of food the Mushroom Wild Rice stuffing, the Persimmon and Pomegranate salad, cut Vegetables, Turkey breast, Corn bread stuffing, a spiral cut ham, so we grabbed our plates from the table and moved like folks in a cake walk making sure our plates got the good stuff.

     

    Columbus Day. Native American genocide. America’s embrace of slavery. The too casual churning of history to invest a wonderful holiday with faux roots. Yes. All true and all bad. Sins for which we will and must atone. Not yesterday, but right now. The United States did not invent coloring its history and holidays with imperial swagger and false memories. But we have done it, too. Here is a New Yorker article that details this effect for Thanksgiving.

    Yet. I choose this morning to return to Abraham Lincoln’s proclamation of the last Thursday of November as a day of Thanksgiving for the entire nation. Its last paragraph is below.* Here is a link to the whole which is worth reading. This man knew how to write, but had his Secretary of Defense, William Seward, pen this one.

    Sarah Hale

    This came before the linkage with Plymouth Rock and the Wampanoag visitation to the Pilgrims, apparently as part of a mutual defense pact. See the New Yorker article.

    It came after a long campaign by Sara Josepha Hale, a woman of many talents, including being among the first female American novelists and the forty year editor of the most widely circulated magazine prior to the Civil War, Godey’s Lady’s Book.

    In her spirit. This holiday, a secular one celebrated throughout the country and in other places where the American diaspora resides, unites us in gratitude. It does this in spite of the mess made of our history and later added to its celebration. Gratitude, taken in acknowledgement of our need for “humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience”, has the effect of dissolving bad feelings, opening hearts, and reminding us of what is good in our life. No matter the life.

    I see it as a holiday that has two great impulses. The first, echoed by the what are we thankful for question heard at many Thanksgiving tables, turns our attention to gratitude. My first spiritual director, a Jesuit nun, had me keep a gratitude journal, saying that all of spirituality can be found in gratitude. I believe that to this day. The second impulse, to bring friends and family around a common table, is a necessary counter to the atomized meal times of our current lives and reinforces the truth of family, together whether MAGA or not. As it did for me yesterday when I celebrated with Ruth, Gabe, Mia, and Jen.

    One last note. If you have ever been puzzled by my gratefuls, let me explain. In the Jewish tradition a unitary metaphysic was once denominated through the notion of monotheism. God is God of all and all is of God. Though many Jews, like me, have passed into a secular reality, the notion of a unitary metaphysic remains. And it has troublesome implications.

    That is. We must be grateful for the yetzer hara, the selfish inclination, as well as the yetzer hatov or the good inclination, for example. We must be grateful for Hamas as well as Israel, Palestinians as well as Israelis. For the spectrum of human hues in our nation and for the life they all lead. For the criminal as well as the law abiding citizen. This does not go down well or obviously from a usual perspective, yet a unitary metaphysic demands it. And I happen to think it makes sense. Jarring as it may be. More on this at a later point.

     

     

    *”…And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, (my emphasis) commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquillity and Union.”


    Holidays Judaism Politics US History

  • Some Exercise, Some News, Some Celebrating

    Posted on by Charles Comment

    Samain and the Summer’s End Moon (1% crescent)

    Sunday gratefuls: The Wizard of Oz. The Seventh Seal. Wild Strawberries. Casablanca. Dracula. The Wolfman. Horror of Dracula. Seven Samurai. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Time the way it comes. Not by fiat. Wendell Berry. Rilke. Cold Mountain. Hokusai. Giotto. Tolstoy. Nabokov. Whitman. Frost. Wordsworth. Coleridge. Cezanne. Monet. Van Gogh. Rodin. 1001 Arabian Nights. The Odyssey. The Iliad. the Divine Comedy. Shadow Mountain. Downtown condos.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe:  Feeling stronger

    One brief shining: The treadmill comes to life, its broad rubber belt whirring on its neverending round, my tennis shoes hit it, again and again, my leg gets a hitch, muscles warmup and the morning’s workout has begun.

     

    I’m beginning to dig myself out of the deconditioned hole I dug for myself over a long period of avoiding resistance work. I no longer feel weak, unable to do things. I’m stronger and less achy. Even my dingy left elbow seems to have improved. Three workouts a week, starting with resistance after a brief warmup on the treadmill. Then cardio afterwards. About 50 minutes total. This week I plan to go to three sets of resistance and one additional day of cardio only. My mantra has become, it’s worth it. And boy is it ever for me.

    My mood also improves because moving sends those endorphins to the brain. Yeah. That’s part of it. Another bigger part is the tangible improvement in my day to day. Another significant contributor to an elevated mood? Knowing I’m taking care of myself. Put those three together and working out becomes worth it.

     

    A week filled with news from folks I know. Paul’s brother, Joe Strickland, got removed from his episcopate. A long time acquaintance decided late in life to transition from male to female. Kate’s sister Anne had a brain bleed requiring a couple of holes in her head to reduce the swelling. Jerry had foot surgery. A friend had the first signals of getting old. Should he keep his keys? My boy and Seoah spent three days in Okgwa over a long Veteran’s day weekend. Diane mentioned San Francisco’s preparations for the APEC summit there this next week.

    Life pulses, throws changes at us daily. We have a chance to be new each morning because the world is no longer the same as it was when we went to sleep. And, neither are we. That river Heraclitus mentioned. Ya know?

     

    We’re getting close to my favorite period. Holimonth. When the temperate climates show the world what it takes ritually to survive four seasons. Thanksgiving. Advent. The Winter Solstice. Christmas. Yule. Kwanza. Divali. Hanukah. Gregorian New Year’s Day. The Posada. The Epiphany. It’s the best time of the year. For me at least.

    We take a deep bath in the mythic world of God’s born in humble places, light driving out darkness, darkness triumphing over light, family, long pilgrimages and sudden awareness. Great music. Food. Entertainment. Seeing family and friends in a festive setting. When Holimonth’s over we can move into the next year reminded well and often of the amazing, the wonderful, the loving.

     

     

     


    Family Feelings Fourth Phase Friends Great Wheel Health Holidays

  • A Shadow Mountain New Year!

    Posted on by Charles Comment

    Samain and the Summer’s End Moon

    Tuesday gratefuls: Aspen Perks. Primos. 285 Cafe. Dazzle. Nocturne. Jazz. Chamber music. Rock and roll. Folk music. Blue grass. Blues. Darkness. About to light up in the morning with Standard Time. Paul in the kiva. Brother Mark in Saudi. Mary in K.L. My son and Seoah in Songtan. Diane in San Francisco. Me on Shadow Mountain. Israel. The World Series. Kirk Cousin’s Achille’s tear. Max Verstappen. F1. Trees still flocked with Saturday’s Snow.

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Brother Mark in Hafir

    One brief shining: Some evenings for dinner I take out a Cosmic or a Honeycrisp Apple, cut it in half with my sharp Japanese chef’s knife, slice each half into four pieces, cut out the seeds, throw the slices in a bowl, and add chunky peanut butter tastes like a caramel apple to me, a fall favorite from year’s gone by.

     

    It’s time to gather round the bonfire, discard all those too confining clothes, and dance around the heat as you came into the world. I’ve never done this but I wish I had. Maybe I will. If I can find a pagan old folks Samain bonfire. Maybe at one of those fancy senior living places? Jews honor the pleasures of the body: dancing, hugs, exercise, good food, good sex so perhaps a Jewish assisted living facility? Not sure why this appeals to me, but it does. At least in the abstract. Yes, it’s the Celtic New Year.

    So many New Years. Judaism has four: Rosh Hashanah-the civil new year and the New Year of the seasons. Tub’shevat-a new year for trees. A New Year that celebrated the birth of the nation, the reign years of kings, and the start of the Festival year. Finally a New Year for Cattle tithes. Gregorian New Year’s on January 1st. Chinese (Asian) New Years at the Spring festival. And many, many others.

    An opportunity to celebrate a New Year according to the human calendar. Whenever it felt right to one culture, it can be adapted by us. I’m fond of Tub’shevat. The Trees had a new year because it was forbidden to eat Fruit from a Tree if it was under three years old. Sound horticulture to me. Like the new year for thoroughbreds which defines which horse can race in which year class. I’m also fond of the Asian New Year. I haven’t celebrated it in a while but during my docent days Kate and I went every year with Ming Jen Chen, who organized the meals at various Chinese restaurants.

    That deal with the ball dropping at Times Square? Not so much. Though January 1st does feel like my New Year, the one my culture honors and therefore the day a year does change. I like it, too, just not the crowds and drunkenness. Kate and I always celebrated at home with a special meal, a fire, conversation. Sometimes we stayed up until midnight. Mostly not.

    This Samain is special for me because it was on Samain of 2014 that I came to Conifer to close on the Shadow Mountain Home. 9 years owning this home. A tenth beginning today. A decade at 8,800 feet. So much has happened. So much.


    Feelings Fourth Phase Holidays Shadow Mountain

  • Samain

    Posted on by Charles Comment

    Fall and the Samain Moon

    Sunday gratefuls: Gabe. Fiske Planetarium. Moons of the solar system. Jupiter-85. Saturn-over 185. Io. Demos. Phobos. Luna. Titan. A Halloween Laser Show. Which included the hit single from my high school days: The Monster Mash. Spending time with the Gabester. That Hogwarts lego set he’s got his eye on. Boulder. 25 square miles surrounded by reality. My kinda place. Illegal Burger. Israel. Keshet. Gaza. Civilians on both sides. War. The rules of war. Blood lust and longlasting mistakes. Diplomats. Massless demons. (no, really. look’em up) Happy Halloween. A weak version of Samain

    Sparks of Joy and Awe: Grandkids

    One brief shining: Lying back in the recliner chairs of the Fiske Planetarium Gabe and I listened as the student astronomer worked the audience filled with young kids, some in costumes some not, and then introduced Mars by asking does anyone know why Mars is red and an adult said iron, she said right, has any one ever seen a rusty nail, a small young voice piped up in eager response, “I have!”

     

     

     

    We’re nearing Samain, the start of the Celtic New Year. Halloween as you may know gets its background nature from Samain. A time considered by the Celts to have a thinned veil between this world and the other world. So ghosts and faeries and goblins and all such creatures could cross from the Other World and enter this one. Humans, too, could cross over into the Other World but had to be careful of being trapped in Faery. Very similar in concept to the Day of the Dead. If you haven’t seen the Disney movie Coco, this is a great time to watch it.

    On the Great Wheel Samain is the last of the three harvest festivals. The first one, Lughnasa, begins on August 1st and celebrates the first harvest. The first fruits of the growing season. The second, Mabon, falls on the autumnal equinox and celebrates the main harvest when the bounty of the growing season comes in insuring food for another year. Samain, which means, Summer’s End, marks the end of the growing season and the start of the long fallow time when the food from Mabon has to last until well into Spring.

    To some it may seem odd to have the New Year begin at the start of the fallow time, but it makes sense to me. The fallow time allows time for rest, for leisure for hardworking subsistence farmers. A time when they could consider their lives, at least for a bit, enjoy their families. The Celtic Faery Faith, the great work by Walter Evans-Wentz, featured his recounting of the stories he heard around peat fires in the evenings in Ireland. During the fallow time. As you may know, Evans-Wentz went on to gain fame as the first translator of the Tibetan Book of the Dead.

    Though I’m almost a Jew by conversion, I retain my Great Wheel sensibilities. I’ve always said that it is an ur-faith, one that can be held by all while following more traditional religious paths, too. The earth is our common mother, one each of us needs to honor and cherish and have faith in.

     


    Great Wheel Holidays